Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"A work of art," David said. "It still feels a little oily, but not so much that a busy teller would notice. How much time do we have before it dissolves?"

"Three days. Maybe four."

"I'll have the pusher deposit it today, and we'll draw on it tomorrow."

"You'll let me know?" Tommy asked.

"Of course." "That crazy German wants a third."

"Let's wait till we see how this goes. When we have the money, we can talk a split. Except that the pusher wants her cash off the top. I promised her two grand. Okay?"

"Sure," Termite Tommy said. "If this goes off without a hitch, maybe we can use her again. Have a nice day."

"You, too," Rathbone said.

He drove home and found Rita in her bedroom, painting her toenails vermilion. David sat down on the bed next to her and held up the check for her inspection.

"Don't touch it," he warned. "You might get polish on it."

She stared long and hard at the check.

"Queer?" she asked.

"As a three-dollar bill. But it's beautifully done. It'll pass. As soon as your toenails dry, I want you to endorse it as Gloria Ramirez. Then drive up to Boca and deposit it at the Crescent."

"And then?"

"Tomorrow you go back to the bank. Draw this out plus your original deposit. Close out the account."

"What if they ask why I'm closing an account I just opened a few days ago?"

"Death in the family, and you've got to go home to San Antonio. Tell them anything. If you have any problems, Mike Mulligan will okay it."

She bent down to remove the wads of cotton from between her toes. Then she straightened up to stare at him.

"I don't like it," she said. "It's a federal rap. They'll

lock me up and throw away the key. What if they lift my prints off the check?"

"They won't," he assured her. "Trust me."

She stood, naked, and began to pull on white bikini panties. "Seems to me you're asking for a whole bunch of trust. It's my ass that'll be on the line, not yours."

"In the first place," he said, "if I thought there was any real risk, I wouldn't ask you to do it. I don't want to lose you; I already told you that. In the second place, I want to find out just how much I can trust you. If you turn me down on this, I'll know."

"And then it's goodbye Rita?"

"You better believe it," he said, nodding. "But if you do it, there will be other jobs, bigger jobs. So it's your future you've got to consider."

She looked again at the check he was still holding. "What's in it for me?" she asked.

"Now you're talking like a mature adult," he said, giving her his 100-watt smile. "A grand for this job. And much more to come if you play along."

"All right," she said. "I'm game."

"That's my girl," he said, pulling her close.

He watched her endorse the check "For deposit only" and the account number. Then he went back to his office. Rita dressed and drove her Chevy up to Boca Raton, where she deposited the Gloria Ramirez check at the Crescent Bank. Then she called Tony Harker.

"A counterfeit Treasury check?" he said. "I can't believe it. Most yobs are specialists. A bank robber does nothing but hit banks. A strong-arm guy mugs people. They very rarely go outside their field. Like a gynecologist doesn't do tonsillectomies. Now we've got David Rathbone, a con man, going in for forgery. It doesn't make sense."

"I'm just telling you what he told me."

"I know," Harker said. "All right, do exactly what he wants. Go back to Boca tomorrow and close out the account. I'll take it from there. We'll let the Ramirez check clear so we have evidence of counterfeiting and bank fraud."

"I suppose I'll have to testify."

"Of course," he said. "That doesn't scare you, does it?"

"No," she said.

"Listen," he said in a low voice, "when am I going to see you again?"

She laughed. "Anxious?" she asked.

"Not anxious," he said. "Eager."

"That's nice," Rita said.

The fourth man assigned to Anthony Harker's staff came from the U.S. Attorney's office in Chicago. He had helped investigate and prosecute a stock-rigging fraud that had sent a half-dozen brokers and financiers to jail. His name was Simon Clark, and Harker disliked him on sight.

There was nothing wrong with Clark's appearance, although he could have lost twenty pounds, but he had a supercilious air about him and made no effort to hide a patronizing attitude toward Lester Crockett's supra-agency. Obviously, he thought Fort Lauderdale was no Chicago, and nothing that might advance his career could possibly come out of this rinky-dink operation.

He listened, expressionless, when Harker explained that his target was Mortimer Sparco, a discount broker with offices on Commercial Boulevard. Sparco was suspected of possible fraud and criminal conspiracy in the trading and manipulation of penny stocks, thinly traded securities that usually sold for less than $1 a share. In addition, Sparco was a close friend of David Rathbone, who called himself an investment manager but was quite possibly a con man swindling his clients with a variation of the Ponzi scheme.

"What I want you to do is-" Harker started.

"I know what you want," Clark interrupted. "You want me to pose as a new client, find out what Sparco is pushing and promising, and if this Rathbone is in on it."

The fact that he was completely correct didn't make his superior manner any easier to endure. "That's about it," Harker admitted, and couldn't resist adding, "Think you can handle it?"

The other man gave him a glare that might have chilled defendants in a courtroom, but had absolutely no effect on Tony.

"You don't need an assistant DA for a job like this," Clark said. "Any gumshoe could do it."

Harker shrugged. "You want out? Planes leave for Chicago all the time. It'll go in your file, of course."

That rattled the attorney. "I'll look into it," he said. "Besides, it's getting cold in Chicago." His smile was stretched.

"Uh-huh," Tony said. "Keep me informed. Calls every day, and a written report every week. I'll try to find you a desk and chair in the bullpen."

Cursing his luck at being dumped in what he considered a backwater, Clark returned to his hotel on the Gait Ocean Mile and changed from his heavy tweed suit to polyester slacks and a lightweight sports jacket. He stopped at the hotel bar for a quick gin and bitters, then got into his rented Olds Cutlass and drove back to Commercial Boulevard.

Sparco's place of business was located in a long, low building that also housed a unisex hairdresser, a real estate agency, a women's swimwear shop, and a store that sold and shipped Florida oranges "Anywhere in the World!"

The brokerage itself looked legit enough. There was a small anteroom with wicker armchairs and a table piled with financial periodicals. There was also a TV set with the stock tape jerking across the screen. Two old geezers wearing Bermuda shorts and sandals stood in front of it, transfixed by the moving price quotations.

There was a receptionist's desk at the open doorway to a spacious room in which several men sat at littered desks equipped with computer terminals. Most of the brokers, Clark noted, were on the phone or busily writing on order pads. The place seemed prosperous enough, but so did betting shops and boiler rooms.

"May I speak to the manager, please," Clark asked the middle-aged receptionist. "I'd like to open an account."

"Just a moment, please, sir," she added, and spoke into her phone.

The man who came forward a few moments later was tall, stooped, and had a neatly trimmed beard so black and glossy that Clark figured it had to be dyed and oiled.

"I'm Mortimer Sparco," he said, smiling and holding out his hand. "How may I be of service?"

"Simon Clark," the attorney said, gripping the proffered hand briefly. "I'm in the process of moving to Fort Lauderdale from Chicago and thought I'd open a brokerage account."